More than an Illness
by bakaneko227
Summary: When the nation of love is faced with having to tell his deeply cherished companion about his disorder, more than just concern arises...
1. Chapter 1

It is one thing to tell a lie, but it is another to truthfully mean it. Even worse would be to act on it and give it life, as though it were a puppet and the culprit a puppeteer of a world made of poisonous words. However long and tedious the lie may be, it's unacceptable. These are values that most of society holds, even if it does betray itself. As a nation, it is even more important to hold standards at a set, so as to accomplish decency and keep nationalism in place. Maintaining a healthy image is to be expected (except, of course, in times of war and economic trouble). The problem? A growing effort of unhealthiness. The unhealthy image holder is none other than the nation of riots and polygamy; France.

Conflicts were arising and so were tensions. Some of the troubles he faced were more personal if anything and didn't evolve his country's well being. It was never the less still hard to coupe with the stress and find a release. He had hobbies, yes, but they didn't seem to satisfy him, even being flirtatious was more of an effort than usual. He felt depressed and dirty, like a divorced , homeless man. He brooded over such feelings as he sat at the long, mahogany conference table , which was, and had been, occupied by other nations as well. It wasn't his choice to come to the meeting. His boss had forced him to, after all, he was techniqally the host. Even so, it seemed like the meetings were almost always held at his place. Whether it was due to being a central location for most of the countries that were coming or because of some other reason, he wasn't all too sure at the moment. He just didn't want to deal with any of the commotion that accompanied these meetings. Sadly, he was there and he couldn't leave without anyone noticing at the present moment. So he just sat and pretended to pay attention to what was going on.

His actions did not go unnoticed, however. Throughout the whole meeting, France had not been himself, except in that he wasn't paying attention. By this, in other words, he wasn't being flirtatiously annoying to the nation that he favored to bug; England. Not to say that he wasn't happy about this; he was. But, in the three hours before they were to take a short break, the English nation had noticed the lacking character and suaveness of the Frenchman. He wouldn't call it concern, more of just curiosity as to why France seemed so down. He decided that he would confront him during the break.


	2. Chapter 2

Once their break had come, most of the other members of the G-8 had gone off to use the facilities or grab a bite to eat. France, however, was

sneaking his way down to the main lobby of the large, modern conference building. His hopes were to slip out a side door, unnoticed and leave. He

proceeded down a lushly carpeted hallway towards a side door, just in case. As he walked, he swiftly stopped when he heard the sound of familiar

voices coming from somewhere nearby. "You're really cute…" came the obnoxious sounding voice he knew all too well to be Americas. "S-shut up,

moron!" came the reply of the British accented voice (with a tinge of anger) that he knew belonged to England . After piecing together what he had just

heard, he quickly peeked around the corner. Not to his surprise, he saw America pinning England to the wall of a darkened side hallway, his arms on

either side of the smaller blonde and his right leg in-between England's own two. It was obvious that the American had trapped him and was trying to

get his way with the Brit. The bright blush and downcast eyes of England were obvious signs that he was in not expecting this. France looked over

the two, noticing that England's hands were balled into fists at his sides. "C'mon, babe, one kiss?" America mused, leaning in closer to the flustered

Englishman. "Stop it, you fat-assed git!" he protested through gritted teeth, pushing against America's chest to halt his actions. This proved to be of

some success as America took the hint and stopped his enclosure on England. "Jeez, no need to get upset dude, I just wanted a kiss" he said

poutingly. France watched as England glared at the American and slipped away from his hold. Frances heart beat increased as he watched the

Englishman approach the hallway that he was hiding in. Hoping he would be able to get out in time, he quickly looked down the hallway at the door

and then back to the approaching Englishman. Taking a deep breath to attempt to sooth his racing heart, he turned to face the door and strode

towards it. He was able to make it to the door and reached out for the handle. His actions, however, were not to be fulfilled, for a voice drew him right

back. "Oi, Frog!" the voice called. France mentally sighed as his cardio vascular system pumped blood through his body at an ever increasing rate. He

turned to face England. The shorter blonde stopped two feet away from him and looked into the opposites eyes. France hesitantly gazed back, not

even paying attention to the Brits moving lips. Was he asking him a question? He wasn't sure, but if he decided to start listening now, he would be lost.

This could possibly lead to confessions that he wouldn't be willing to give out. The French nation's mind raced with these inconclusive thoughts.

"Hey….France?". France snapped back to reality at the English nation's voice. He blankly looked at the shorter's face before letting out a confused reply.

"Quoi?" he asked, giving away that he hadn't been paying attention to what the Brit had asked him. England looked at him with obvious annoyance

written on it's features. "I asked why you were acting so weird at the meeting" he said with a sigh. France momentarily tensed as he mentally tried to

think up a good excuse. He was usually good at being dramatic, but the Brit was a good observer, especially after knowing him for centuries. How was

he going to lie to him? Holding his eyes shut in a long blink, he gave a shaky breath. "I'm not feeling very well…". England glanced at him and then

turned his gaze away. "Yeah" he started "I don't think I'm feeling too well, either". France looked him over briefly. It was true that the green eyed man

seemed a bit paler than normal. Then again, he might still be a bit shell shocked from what France had seen taken place only moments ago.

Regardless, he didn't want England catching onto anything. He decided to draw the attention away by giving a hint that he needed to leave. He

reached a hand past the Brit and motioned towards the door. "Shall we leave zis place zen?" he questioned. England looked at him and then the door.

"Is that an invitation?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at the man in front of him. France relinquished for a moment, not sure if he should let him come

back to his house. He opened his mouth to give a reply, but wasn't able to due to the fact that the Englishman had already made his way past the

Frenchman and out into the bright sun light. France quickly followed after him, letting the door bang shut behind him. '_zis isn't going to turn out well'_

France thought, catching up to the Brit and walking towards what he knew would be certain mayhem.


	3. Chapter 3

Warning!: love scene in this chapter! don't like, don't continue (but i still like you, so don't forget about me!)

* * *

France took a seat on his couch, England perched on the other end. They were in France's comfortable, yet small, appartment that was located on the

opposite end of Paris. Having not taken a car to get to the conference building that day, France had guided England with him back to where they were

via the metro. There were metro stations all around Paris, making it easy for any sort of travel to take place. They were both used to using the

underground trains, having even built one under the English channel to connect both of the countries. However, even with the fimiliarity of everything,

the ride was still awkward. Both the nations had been silent, which was unusual. Both had noted a difference in actions, but didn't metion anything.

There had been no flirting from France's end, nor had their been any complaining from the Englishmans end. To make the situation even more

uncomfortable, they had been sitting next to each other for ten minutes without a word exchanged. France was nervous enough as it was with the Brit

in his house; he wasn't sure what to talk about for fear of him prying into his personal life. His brooding was interupted by a small sigh emitted from the

smaller blonde. France, hoping for some tension relif, looked up to meet the Englishmans gaze. England briefly returned the look before favoring the

sight of the wall that the couch was against. France continued to look at him, expecting some sort of response. England then opened his mouth and let out an "um…" before shutting it again, as though he were a cod fish. France turned away, thinking his English friend had lost his confidence, until he heard him speak up. "I-I hate to be rude, but I was not able to have a proper tea time, so…may I have a cup?" he asked, being as polite as possible. France glanced back at him then gave him a small smile, attempting to be convincing. " Of course" he replied as he stood, quickly adding a "mon cher" to his statement. England turned his head, a light pink on his cheeks, with a mutter of "Don't call me that…" coming from the shorter. France hurried out of the room, (metaphorically) kicking himself for having made such a stupid mistake in his speech pattern. He had hoped that the Brit wouldn't notice what, to others, would be a minor detail, but, then again, he knew that his companion was skeptical. He ignored the nagging feeling in his gut and continued his pace to the kitchen to prepare the Englishmans tea.

Back in the sitting room, England sat quietly pondering what might be wrong with France. He didn't mind-in fact one could say that he was happy that the 'frog' wasn't flirting with him like he usually did- , but there was still something displeasing to the senses about him. Was it something he had said to make the Frenchie act out of wack? He couldn't recall anything. France tipically made it clear to the other when he had been offended or distraut by something that the Brit had done. However, these circumstances seemed to have faded. "_Whatever may be going on with the Frenchmans attitude change would eventually present itself" _ England thought.

In the kitchen, France had put a kettle of water on the stove to boil and was now busy arranging a tray of what would be typical tea treats. He

delicately laid another lady finger onto the plate before moving it aside as to not knock it over. He reached over his head to get into the cupboards and

pull out his delicate china cups that would suit the shorter blonde perfectly. He set them gently onto the counter just as the kettle began it's high

pitched melody. His attention turned to said kettle and he strode over to retrieve it from the flame. He cautiously picked it up by the handle and poured

it's contents into both of the small cups. He promptly placed a tea bag in each. It seemed almost meaningless, from his perspective. He wouldn't eat the

goodies, nor would he indulge in any of the hot, herb beverage. He set the kettle aside, waiting for the tea to steep. As he did so, he leaned against

the stove and ran a hand over his stomach. "Mon Dieu" he murmured aloud. He gazed scrutinizingly down at his torso. To any normal person, he would

appear to be thin and attractive. However, his sickened, morphed brain only fed back distorted images of his body. In his eyes, he was fat and needed

to loose as much weight as he could.

France found himself to be overweight and out of shape. He saw a disgusting, twisted self-image, when, in fact, he was quite attractive. The pains he

felt radiating from his stomach gave him a sort of comfort that he had trained himself to live with. They would clench his stomach, a hand that squeezed

the digestive organ as though trying to choke it. Even so, he lived with these pains, knowing that they would reform him. He drew himself away from

his from the scornfulness that he was giving to his body. He figured that it would be wise to go back to the Englishman before suspicions began to

arise. He picked up the tray of biscuits and tea, turning on his heels. He strode towards the door way, walking towards the sitting room.

When he reentered, he found the Brit in a more relaxed state than he had left him. He knew this from the loosened tie still adorning the Englishman's neck and the slightly exposed bit of collarbone from the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. He held a few of the documents from the meeting in his left hand, his eyes scanning the page. France approached him and set the tray down onto the coffee table. France once more took his place next to England as the Englishman came to his senses. He set the paper work aside and reached out his right hand to take hold of the small tea cup. France glanced at the papers wondering what the smaller blonde had been reading. He glanced up at England as he was taking a sip of his tea. France watched him to

so, reflecting on the tentative nature that his companion took in doing so. He couldn't help but stare at his thin, pink lips that seemed to appear quite

kissable. However, he knew that would not be a good idea, especially without England's consent. His eyes drifted upward, happening to meet the gaze

of the Englishman.

"um…thank you for the tea…It's…nice" he said, his tone laced with gratitude, but not overbearing any sort of emotion. France nodded in reply, not

taking his eyes away from the Englishman's. He figured that if he looked the Brit in the eyes, it would be less likely for him to pry. England narrowed his

eyes and looked directly at the Frenchman. "What? No verbalism?" he said coyly. France just shrugged "If you would like me to say somezing, all you

had to do was ask." With this England just emitted a frustrated sigh. _'He's being so temperamental…I don't know what's going on with him'_ the younger

thought. _'Maybe if I create a more relaxed atmosphere, he'll loosen up…' . _The Brit, determined to coax France into revealing what he was really going

through, pondered over what to do as he took a biscuit off of the tray that France had presented. He raised it to his lips, opening them a sliver to slide

the sweet into the warm cavern. He bit down lightly, letting the sugary, buttery goodness coat his taste buds. He let out a small, satisfied sigh and

continued to eat the confectionary at a slow, savoring pace. France tried his best to concentrate on the wall opposite of them. England, however, was

quick, even in his sugar induced trance (he would never admit how much he liked the Frenchies cooking), to notice that France hadn't indulged in his own baking.

"Aren't you going to have one, frog?" he questioned. France's heart jumped slightly in his chest, picking up speed. He opened his mouth and gave a

hasty reply of "non, merci, I'm not hungry" to the Brit. The smaller raised an eyebrow at him, wondering what was with the rushed statement. France

simply added a smile to the equation and left it at that. England, being Frances friend for over a thousand years, could see right through his veil,

though. He knew the Frenchman had been lying about his well being and was hiding something from the other. Aggravated, the Englishman swallowed

the rest of his biscuit and focused intensely on the Frenchman. "I know something is wrong" England stated, trying to retain a calm tone in his voice,

"just spit it out". France sat there, his eyes wide and mouth tightly shut. He wasn't sure how to counter with the Brit. His eyes flicked around in their

sockets, looking everywhere but the shorter male in front of him. Noticing the Frenchman's hesitation and lack of an answer, he scooted closer.

"Francis…please" he spoke gently, reaching out a hand to brush it over the taller blonde's. France's heart leapt in his chest at the small, yet sweet,

contact, but he still refused to look the other directly in the face. England drew his legs up onto the couch. "What is going on with you?" he mumbled,

crawling over to the other. France could feel a heat rising in his face as he looked in the opposite direction, not wanting to give in, even when his heart was screaming otherwise. However, he was forced to give into his hearts desires when he felt a sudden pleasure on his upper thigh and pelvic area.

He turned sharply in the direction of his English companion to see him sitting in his lap. He tried to look away again, but was totally deterred from that

when the Englishman took a hold of his chin and forced the Frenchman to look at the other. France gulped, his Adams apple bobbing eversoslightly in

his throat. England usually wasn't like this with him, unless he was drunk. Judging from the events that had taken place earlier and the herb like smell

that the Brit was emitting were key factors in the fact that he certainly was not drunk.

He searched the Emerald eyes, not sure what the smaller would do next. England returned the deep gaze, a serious expression adorning his features. Almost automatically, he opened his mouth to defend himself. "Je suis desolee, I'm just in no mood to deal with anyzing…" he said, his tone sounding almost drained. England just looked at him with the same set expression. He pondered what the Frenchman had said, wondering if he was just sick.

He slid a hand up to France's face, cradling his cheek. "Are you sure?" he asked "Because I know that there is more you are hiding from me." France forced a slow, soft smile out of himself, also sliding a hand up to his own face to lay over the Englishman's. England's facial emotions softened slightly, almost in a loving manner. France continued to gaze into the mesmerizing eyes, noticing that they were getting closer and closer. Before he could realize what was happening, his body gave in and leaned into the Englishman. Their lips locked in a feather light kiss.

To be honest, France had somewhat been expecting this, to say the least. He was still somewhat surprised, though, when the shorter had actually done it. He wasn't too sure how to react, but kissed back nonetheless. England held France's face tenderly, their lips moving together in a slow rythymn of loving hatred. France slid his arms up to wrap around the younger's waist, pulling their bodies closer to each other. The Englishman on top of him let out a small, muffled grunt, obviously enjoying the intimate activity. He, in turn, drew his free arm around the Frenchman's shoulders. They took their time, not sure if they should go any further than they had already. It seemed to satisfy the both of them, the obvious relaxation and contentment in such actions showing through both of the males body language. However, France wanted to take things a step further.

He lightly bit onto the smaller's lower lip, earning a soft moan from the Brit. He felt content and passionate, not even caring if this was part of England's plan to try and get him to fess up about his issues. He just wanted to bask in the love that was being exchanged.

He slipped a hand up the back of the smaller's untucked shirt, feeling the warm, smooth skin of the Brits back beneath his colder touch. England shivered slightly and moved his other hand away from Frances face in favor of placing it on the Frenchman's shoulder. France leaned back against the arm of the couch, using the hand on the other blonde's back to push him closer so that their bodies pressed together. England let out another muffled moan, letting his hips push up against the Frenchman's suggestively. At this, France lightly pressed his tongue to the smaller's lips, wanting to show the Englishman as much 'l'amour' as his French body would allow him without going too far.

The Englishman opened his mouth ever so slightly to let the eager French invader in. France moaned in gratitude as his muscle encountered the rich wetness of the others mouth. England let out a sound of satisfaction, his tongue pushing lightly against the other's in a sense of frisky frenching. They tasted each other, dwelling on the movement of each others tongues, as though it were a passionate dance that must be followed precisely. It was total bliss for the both of them.

However, the spur of emotions and hormones drove both a little further than they would have liked. For, as to be expected, the Englishman had snaked his hands over to the Frenchman's collarbone and had begun to unbutton the sequence of buttons. The later had stiffened and immediately stopped his romantic actions. It was then that they found themselves in the awkward position of post-hormonal encountering (a.k.a. WTH do we do now?). They pulled apart, some saliva connecting them, to look at each other. The Frenchman, from what England saw, looked stunned and slightly anxious. England gave him a curious look, not used to France turing down such a tempting treat.

"Why did you stop me?" he asked, not sure what sort of response he would get. The Frenchman looked him in the eyes before blinking a few times. "I…

just don't think zat zis is ze right place, nor ze right time, mon ami" he replied, loosening his hold on the smaller man. England looked thoughtfully at

him for a moment before dropping his gaze down to the taller man's half opened shirt. France felt the familiar feeling of blood rushing through his veins

hit him once more. He observed as the Englishman furrowed his thick eyebrows, concentrating on the Frenchie's torso. His small hands moved down to

investigate. France clenched his eyes shut, not wanting to see the other's reaction to what lay beneath the fabric. He heard a small gasp emitted from

above him as the pale hands groped his prominent rib-cage. France knew he would get it from the Englishman, yet still tried to draw the younger's

attention away by grabbing his wrists and forcing them away from his person. He was met with a firm slap to both of his hands, turning them a bright

red. France recoiled, his eyes instinctively opening to look upon the one who had hurt him. He was, unfortunately for him, met with a worried gazed from the other. Before he even had time to come up with a half-attempted excuse, England cut him off. "You're anorexic, aren't you?" he asked, all the events that he had witnessed coming togethter in his mind to form the sickened image of a mentally compromised France.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Tension rose between the two after the Englishman's statement. He had pieced together everything that he had taken in and come up with the conclusion that France was anorexic. It seemed perfectly logical to him. Besides, the Frenchie had been looking a lot thinner than usual. France just stared at England, wondering if he should react with shock or anger. He knew that the Brit was genuinely concerned, but should he meet his concern? It seems like he might not. He was mentally debating whether or not to react at all. Either way, he was going to have to face up to the Englishman at some point.

He heaved a sigh. "I've just been overwhelmed lately" he lied "I've lost my interest in zings." He looked directly at the British man, waiting for a response. His statement hadn't been a complete lie. He had lost interest in things he once enjoyed, but he kept his true conflicts bottled up. He had been concerned with work, but who wasn't? The second part had been a lie. At least to him it was. His true intentions were debatable to anyone who would know them, but that was not to be discussed. However, knowing the naturally grumpy Englishman, he would argue to the ends of the earth with France, even if he didn't fully know what they were arguing over.

England processed everything, eyeing the Frenchman. He also sighed "Well, avoiding eating is not the way to go, you, of all people, should know this." The younger blonde now looked frustrated with France about the matter at hand. France noticed that England's eyebrows were scrunched together, the rest of his face twisted in a sour, judging expression of ridicule. It was evident to the Frenchman that he would now indeed have to face an angry, ranting Brit. France was quickly loosing his patience, even more so now than before. He knew that his friend didn't comprehend what was truly going on with France, but yet he went on anyways. It was admirable that he was willing to comfort the Frenchman and confront him about his problems, but he truly didn't understand the half of it. France wanted to shut him up, but the could only think of one way to in such a sort instance.

"And further more –mngh!". England had been cut off mid-sentence by France's lips connecting with his own. England blushed out of annoyance and embarrassment, raising his hands to rest on France's shoulders. He gave a firm push, struggling to break free of their lip lock. In any effort, he didn't respond to the kiss, refusing to kiss the Frenchman back in such a moment. In another situation, he may have been more compliant. However, if he was right about France, it was important to seek help as quickly as they could.

France by now had noticed the unresponsiveness of the Englishman. With a mental sigh, he relinquished his kiss and pulled away to look at the Brit. England was as red as a Spanish tomato, maybe even redder, and was glaring the Frenchman down. "What the hell, France, I wasn't finished" he huffed. France just rolled his eyes in an uncaring manner. "Angleterre, just shut up" he groaned, tired of the Englishman's senseless ranting. However, England took this to offense, not enjoying being brushed off. "Don't tell me to shut up, Francis" he growled, using his human name as a mechanism of drawing attention to what he meant. He wasn't trying to be of any insult, he just wanted France to know that he was to be taken seriously. France just looked at him.

They stared at each other for awhile, France trying to think of a way to break the awkward atmosphere. France decided the best way was to make another sexual move on England, as he would normally do, if he was his normal self, that is. It may not get the best response from the shorter male, but it was the best he could do before anything else happened.

He slowly moved a hand down to the Englishman's inner thigh. He caressed the clothed skin carefully, yet firmly enough to gain England's attention. And did England react. Emerald met sky blue with a fierce glare, a fire hidden behind the windows to his soul. France had been right, though. This had certainly stirred the Brit's anger.

"Don't try and change the subject" he said in a stoic tone. France just looked at him with no emotion. This infuriated the younger, who was just about ready to leave the Frenchman's house without another word. However, he tried his best to remain emotionally cool and be open to what France had to say. After all, if he was going to find out anything more about France's current mentality issues, he needed to be willing to hear the other end, right?

Brewing over this, his eyes softened to a normal, yet concerned swirl of green. France kept the same emotional mask on as he looked at the other. Sick of not getting a visible response, he moved his gaze downwards, settling on France's torso. France's shirt was still partially unbuttoned from their sexy encounter. England looked closer at the exposed collar bone-collar bone?! He stopped there and nearly did a double take. He could see the entirety of Frances collar bone, along with a few ribs that led down to his rib cage. He knew the taller to be thin, but not this much. Curious as to what more of him was this boney, he lifted his hands to the other's chest.

France didn't respond for a moment, not sure what was going on. It was not until he heard a gasp emitted from the green eyed blond that he then realized what England had found out. England had felt France's chest over, surprised by the rigid bumps that lay underneath his skin. He had gasped (as mentioned) when his nimble fingers made contact with the bumps of Frances bones.

Wanting to exploit such an atrocity, England swiftly raised the Frenchman's button up just enough to slip his hands in. France nearly yelped in shock when the cold flesh met his warmer torso. However, even if he did protest, the British man was too fast for him. For, as France had felt, England already had his fingers prodding up into the indents of his rib cage. France observed how England's facial features turned to shock as he poked his two pointer fingers up the bottom of his ribs. It felt weird to have someone poke at his lungs, as though trying to push them out through his mouth with merely two digits. The Englishman was nevertheless appalled by such things, and pulled back. His hands immediately clasped together, as though they had touched something poisonous. The younger's face, though, did say so.

France built up enough nerve to talk to England and attempt to discuss the problem. It wasn't so much convincing at this point, but choosing words carefully. This would be done so that no arguments would be dealt and no blows taken. Even though the blow was already taken by France in a way that no one else would understand. They would just shrug him and his emotional endeavors off, calling him 'overdramatic'. It was in this that those found fault and wrong, at least this time around.

England stopped France before he could utter a word. "I'm taking you to see a doctor" he said, a new found seriousness laid to his voice. He saw the difference and stepped up to help. Not knowing if France was being moody or dramatic, but not caring if it turned out to be so. He had taken to France with less concern than should have been given. And now, he must be the one to help his friend out in a time of need. He had such emotions for the Frenchman that one could call it love. Than again, would he ever admit to it?


End file.
